


Cheers!

by agaycaballero



Category: Bully (Video Games)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Cigarettes, Heavy Language, Lots of alcohol, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 16:54:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24130162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agaycaballero/pseuds/agaycaballero
Summary: "'(...) You look amusing when you seem to be mulling over something.''Maybe I was mulling over giving you a poundcake with my fists right now.''You better save this for our next date.'Who the fuck coerces someone to stay over their shift to make them drinks and calls this a date?"Alternatively,  the tale of a hotel bar manager with a messed up past who is just trying to clock out but his VIP guest keeps nagging him for booze and attention.
Relationships: Kirby Olsen/Gord Vendome
Comments: 7
Kudos: 12





	Cheers!

**Author's Note:**

> i may or may not LOVE writing about bartending. i do love writing about these kids tho.  
> based on gord's canon line where he says his dad owns like 8 hotels or something?
> 
> DISCLAIMER: i do not own any of the liquor brands mentioned nor do i profit from any of them. obviously i also do not own bully or any of the characters mentioned (apart from the hotel staff. they work for me in my fancy fictional hotel.)

Tuesday nights at Gran Domus Hotel were most definitely the slowest nights.

After nearly half a year working in the hotel’s Food & Beverage department – specifically responsible for the five bars within the luxurious building – Kirby Olsen could attest to this fact and think of calling it a night at ten—maybe eight if he felt like it. On Tuesdays he usually clocked in early exactly for this reason, unless there was an important event scheduled for the date.

His superior would lovingly let him know he would have to stay a little longer on that particular Tuesday, the one night where he only yearned for his day off to only return to work on Thursday, five minutes before the end of his shift.

“I suppose you’ve been briefed that the Directors and the Chairman are gathered at the Convention Center, right?”, he mentioned casually and Kirby felt like giving that onion-faced doofus a pounding of his fists.

 _Fuck no I haven’t because **you** haven’t fucking briefed me at all,_ his mind cried. Instead of assaulting him, however, he gave his most charming – and most successfully practiced – business smile as he said:

“Absolutely, Mr. Laer. The hotel’s anniversary is coming up, I hear?”

“That’s right, and they’re planning the banquet to celebrate next month. Anyway, their kids have come along too, you know how it is. They’re still at that party hard age all fresh from Law, Business, Med schools.”

_Ohmygod could you please brief me **briefer**._

“I think they’re about your age. Very nice kids, actually…”

_Just tell me to stay over already for fu—_

“… So, in case they show up for a few drinks, I need you to guarantee everything will go perfectly”.

Kirby nodded and smiled once more – talk about jaw exercising. And doormat skills probably.

“Leave it to me, Mr. Laer”. _Shithead._

“You’ve been doing a great job since you joined our team. I know I can trust you to nail it”.

“Thank you, sir”.

“Whelp! I’m calling it a night. Good work everyone! And Kirby, my boy, I expect your report on the night tomorrow morning. See you Thursday!”

_Of course, you get to leave to your beauty slumber with no regrets, just love and ballbusting. Shithead._

And for the nth time in the last ten years, Kirby swore he would leave the industry.

At age 28, however, Kirby seemed to stray further and further from any other possible path in his life. Bartending was the door that had been opened to him with a promise of changing his situation back then. It was an essential mark of Kirby freeing himself from the darkest period of his life – a time that certainly scarred him in ways he could not possibly forget even now.

He started saving up money back when he was still a mere busser, with a shitty income and no tipping at all – and he persevered until he managed to move out from his parent’s house and rent a studio-apartment at age 20.

Through trials and tribulations – because working in pubs evidently was far from living the dream – his progress in the industry led him to few better opportunities. Once he finally saw himself behind the bar, learning about the art of cocktails and mixology, he took a genuine liking to it even if he still saw it as a backup life plan. His exhaustive schedule, however, became a sore spot that led him to postponed thoughts of getting back to studies so he could try the exams for college.

Life happens unaccordingly sometimes. _Many_ times. Opportunities come and go as much as misfortunes and new priorities come up.

Being a high school dropout who had spent several months in a mental health unit, _survival_ certainly was one of the top priorities on his shelf ever since.

Fast forwarding to present time, the Bar Manager of Gran Domus Hotel – a proud accomplishment that warmed Kirby’s chest every time he recalled his resumé — glanced at his watch and noticed it was a quarter past nine. He would have left over an hour ago were it not Mr. Laer’s belated announcement.

No sign of the Directors’ shitty relatives in there so far.

There were only four tables currently occupied in the lounge, a total of twenty eight covers so far for the evening. With the barback who had to cover the bartender who called in sick thanking heavens that most tables picked wine over cocktails, two waiters running theirs mouths on questionable tastes for liquor – _talking of vodka crans in a 5 star hotel? Really?_ — and a hostess who seemed to be daydreaming of beach parties with plenty of Aperol Spritzes rather than paying attention to the entrance or the telephone, Kirby sighed heavily and strolled through the area, casting ugly looks at the servers when they were too engaged in the exchange to notice their raised voices, or worse, not keeping an eye to their tables. The costumers, thankfully, seemed as engaged as them in their own matters, and paid no mind to the lack of discipline amongst the staff.

Slow nights were _really_ slow nights.

“So, Lorene”, Kirby tactfully approached the hostess, startling her out of her reverie, “do you remember what time they said the conference would be finished?”

“What conference—oh”

Talk about briefing.

“Uhm, let me check my—”, she scrambled the pages of the notebook left on her wooded stand and fished out a sheet with a catering order for the event. “There it is.”

 _Shit. Talk about **briefing**_ **.**

“Must’ve ended already. It was scheduled until nine”.

Lorene had been working in the hotel for nearly two years now. Certainly, she was much more acquainted with these occasions and the company’s big names than him. Kirby had only known the CEO and maybe two other big shots so far. Maybe at this rate she might be familiar with their relatives too?

“Do they usually show up for a quick drink or more?”

_Or do they camp beyond last call and act like they own the place? Oh, wait. They kind of do._

“Uhm, usually”, she twiddles a lock of her hair in her neatly-polished nails and ponders before resuming, “Just Gordy and Bob seem to stick around the bar after the meetings. The others are either already satisfied with the catering and order a bottle to their rooms or have dinner at the restaurant.”

 _Gordy and Bob_ , he holds a snicker at this, _someone seems to feel like part of the family already_.

“I see.”

It was rather unlikely that other costumers were to arrive. Kirby looked at the watch once more: a quarter before ten. They closed at midnight on Tuesdays. The six-top at table 12 was ready for their check, the deuce at table 20 had ordered two more glasses. Soon the lounge would be nearly empty, which to Kirby seemed uninviting for young men in high spirits — why not go to a club instead?

 _God._ He already missed his bed, his favorite new acquisition ever since he moved in to his own flat. That is, after his DYI inhouse bar with his bar tools and his favorite liquor. He longed for a warm shower, his bourbon shelf and his bed more than anything.

There he was, however, sitting in a discreet bar stool and ordering a double espresso to the poor barback who was scolded for looking at his phone during work while staying in front.

Looking at his staff now, baby faces all in their early 20s, he thought of his younger self and the plans of getting a degree – which degree, however, had always been a foggy picture in his mind even to this day. At least he managed to get his GED, despite being acquired at age 22, back when he still found time, energy and will to study. A sports career, needless to say, had been scratched at the age of 17 after the incident at Bullworth.

He frowned at his cup as his mind once again lured him to haunting places of his memory. A decade has passed since he left that hellhole. No warm reminiscing of his days at Bullworth Academy and certainly not a single wish of returning to that shitty town.

“Sorry. Mr. Olsen, I forgot to heat up your cup before serving. I’ll get you a new one on the fly—”

Kirby raised his eyes once he realized someone had addressed him. He had never acknowledged his coffee was actually not as hot as he liked it, dark swirls remaining untouched by his lips.

“Thanks”, whether for dragging him off his anxious thoughts or taking notice of his preferences, that was all he replied.

Kirby kept his eyes on the remaining tables as the group of six thanked one of the waiters and the hostess on their way out. Table 28 was a three top of habitués who were nearly finished with their second bottle of Cannonau and most certainly would stay at that.

Another glance at his watch. Half past ten. When the hell would these wealthy little shits grace their sorry commoner asses with their high and mighty grace anyway?

“Welcome, gentlemen”, few minutes into his now finished cup, Kirby heard the hostess’s voice from the entrance and looked up to see two men enter the lounge and head to a table in the corner.

 _Fucking finally_ , he sighed once more.

He stood up from his stool and motioned to make his way to their table, scanning their faces from afar—

_Oh no, no, no, no, no._

—and made a beeline to the pantry in the backroom with trembling curled fists and shaking breaths.

_Fucking HELL no._

He slumped at the wall next to the stocked beverages and a plethora of expletives left his mouth in harsh whispering. Of all people to be related to this company. Really. Of all people, did he really have to acknowledge he was also working for the goddamn Vendomes _now_?

* * *

Distressed, Kirby wondered if the man had taken notice of his presence as he desperately fled to the pantry. Would he remember his face as easily as Kirby recognized his? Would he recall the rumors and ill comments involving Kirby’s name, the nasty photoshopped pictures resembling the teenager spread through Bullworth Academy halls like the greatest fucking joke of the year?

Kirby’s eyes stung, the urge of punching and breaking something —anything— as his white knuckles suppressed an ugly shriek. Would he remember the news of a teenage—

“Mr. Olsen? Sir?”

A light knock at the door caught him off spiraling into his trepidation. Kirby winced, sucked in his breath and tried to recollect himself.

“Y-yes?”

“Uhm… Mr. Vendome and Mr. Corelli have arrived and ordered their drinks”, one of the servers announced.

“… Good. I-I’ll be right back. In the meanti—"

“Yeah and uhm—Diogo told me to ask you what’s a Rob Roy.”

Kirby pinched the bridge of his nose. These kids demanded _patience_.

“It’s like a Manhattan, you just need to replace the bourbon with scotch.”

“Okay…”, few seconds passed followed by the sound of the waiter’s voice once more, “Mr. Olsen, how long should you shake a Manhattan?”

“What the—Oh God.”

_Really now, who the hell hired these fuckers to work in a luxury bar?_

“Just tell him I’ll be there in a sec.”

Great, not only he had to go back but also get inside the fucking bar. Which would definitely be a pleasure were it not for the awful circumstances. With another sigh, Kirby left the pantry and swiftly pulled the bar door open to get inside, washing his hands as he turned to the unfortunate barback who still lacked cocktails knowledge.

“Alright, two Rob Roys then?”

“Mr. Corelli ordered a negroni, sir. The Rob Roy is just for Mr. Vendome. ‘Make it perfect’, ‘s what he said.”

 _Fan-fucking-tastic_. Let him make a drink for his old acquaintance.

“Do you know how to make a negroni?”

“Yes, sir, this I know.”

“Pass me the Peychaud’s over there. Right. You stick to the negroni, I’ll make this Rob Roy and you better keep notes so you can make the next one.”

With that said, Kirby promptly grabbed the mixing glass and carefully started his cocktail. He set a martini glass filled with ice on the bar to chill as he motioned to pour half an ounce of dry vermouth he grabbed from the fridge and half an ounce of sweet vermouth taken from his barback’s hand once he finished pouring it to his negroni.

“Make sure you stir it well”, Kirby instructed, eyes focused on the jigger in his hand as he poured two ounces of blended scotch. With two dashes of bitters he stirred the mix and continued, “Don’t forget to discard the ice in a martini glass before serving.”

 _Don’t forget to grab a Bartending 101 on your way back too_ , he mentally added as he saw the young man clumsily straining his own drink in an OTR¹ glass filled with ice.

“Twist that peel and rub it on the rim—Yes, now drop it. That’ll give an extra flavor and aroma to your cocktail.”

Kirby resumed straining his Rob Roy, ringing the bell as he neatly placed a twist of lemon on the cocktail. He watched as a server picked the drinks, carefully placing them on the silver tray and heading to the table. He may or may not have leaned back to a less illuminated corner in the bar as he did that, who could tell?

He carefully observed as the men toasted and savored the first sip on their drinks. There was evident satisfaction in their faces. _That’s some topnotch bartending you got there, buddy._ He noticed, then, a certain Mr. Vendome speaking to the server who brought their beverages, plastic smile all over his visage. Was he paying compliments? Hopefully. It was only fair – Kirby took much pride in his work, thank you very much. And then he noticed as his gaze followed in his own direction—

_Shit. Turn around._

“Have you checked all tags already?”, trying not to sound too nervous, Kirby crouched and opened one of the fridges to supposedly check on its contents. “Is everything labeled, expiring dates reviewed? I, uh, could help you with that.”

“Thanks, Mr. Olsen, but I already did that. All labeled and updated.”

“Well then, I guess I could just double check these! Stay in sight, keep an eye on everyone. If these punks slack off too much just ring the bell to draw their attention back, okay?”

“I—uh—yes sir.”

_Congratulations, kiddo. You’ve been promoted to Bar Manager for tonight._

There was no way one could tell he was hiding from the one VIP table he was supposed to supervise, right? Of course he wasn’t. He was right there should anything happen, he was just busying himself with—someone else’s job, yes, but really? He had to double check what others did to make sure it was done correctly, obviously.

Several minutes past eleven, a server disposed the wine glasses from table 20 and table 28. He also disposed table 30’s empty glasses just in time for the bar printer to pop out a new order – another round of negroni and Rob Roy. “I’ll be right here if you need me”, Kirby told his barback as he remained in his squat position despite the numb feeling slowly creeping through his legs.

He knew he could not keep on stealth mode for much longer and eventually he would have to face his long-known classmate from high school though. What was there to say anyway? It had been such a long time now — how could he harass him for things that happened ten years ago? Could he even remember anything at all, being the self-absorbed snob he had always been?

“So you’re the splendid bartender responsible for that extraordinary drink, huh?”

_Shit._

The last fridge was — thank heavens it was — the one closest to the bar door. Kirby was nearly hovered inside, nose bumping store-and-pour bottles that stood in front, when he heard the familiar voice coming from across the bar.

“I must say, this must have been the most perfect Rob Roy I had in a lifetime. Let me guess—Chivas 18?”

 _Try again, douchebag._ This was as well a drink as it could be—even though the cheapest liquor in there was still above Kirby’s cheapskate regular choices, a well drink is a well drink _._

“Thank you, Mr. Vendome, but it was really my boss who made you the first drink”, Kirby prayed his oblivious barback could just shut the fuck up and did not acknowledge him behind the bar. He was nearly out of the bar, crouching his way under the door—

“Would it be this one lad over there then?”

 **_THUMP_ ** _._

“M-Mr. Olsen? Are you alright?”

 _My head just fucking hit the bar door after being disclosed but I’m doing **damn** fine_.

No way out. Kirby pretended the back of his head did not ache from bumping into the wooden door and tried to get up as elegantly as he could to face his fateful encounter. He ignored his barback’s concern and stared right into his guest’s eyes — were they always this dark? He held his breath shortly and motioned a curt smile.

“I appreciate the compliment. This was actually made with Johnnie Walker though. Would you like your next drink to be made with Chivas instead?”

Kirby struggled to keep his service façade as he watched his old classmate staring at him with a—puzzled expression? He wondered what was he thinking as despair crept through his innermost. He dreaded every second of it and just wanted to run away and prepare his resign letter.

He saw a smile on his face. _Shit_.

“Why, it has been a long time, old chap! I had not expected to see your good face in here. What a lovely surprise!”

“… It certainly is a surprise, Mr. Vendome”, Kirby replied, albeit a little constipated. _Far from lovely though._

“Just call me Gord, please.”

Kirby stood silent at that and simply grinned. _Why_ _won’t you fuck off, Gord?_

The poor barback looked at the scene with utter confusion. Was he third-wheeling something in there? Was he supposed to resume his drinks before it failed to meet a 5 star standard?

“Well”, Gord took a seat on the bar stool, eying him from head to toe as he spoke, “I would love another Rob Roy of yours. Chivas would be superb indeed. Maybe with Maraschinos rather than a lemon twist though?”

“Diogo was about to make your drinks. I’m sure you’ll be equally plea—"

“I want _you_ , Kirby Olsen” Gord’s eyes gleamed as he stressed his preference, “make me another drink, will you?”

Kirby fumed. He also tried not to think how oddly allured _and_ angered his words made him feel that moment. _The nerve._ He looked at his barback, who simply made room for him hesitantly as he continued to watch the exchange.

“… Absolutely, Mr. Vendome.”

With shaking fists, Kirby made his way inside the bar once more. He kept his eyes on Gord, wondering if the daggers he was aware they shoot could actually pierce the smug face in front of him. _The fucking nerve, really_.

“Get along with the negroni”, he told his barback as he motioned to grab the bottle of Chivas from the shelf.

Cocktail glass chilling on the bar, mixing glass full of ice on the bar mat. As Kirby prepared Gord’s drink, he heard him convey again.

“I had been told the bars service quality had increased in the last few months. It must be due to your work, I suppose.”

Kirby kept his eyes on his drink, refusing to pay more attention than necessary.

“Mr. Laer certainly was pleased to give me such report. If I knew you were working here before, I would have certainly stopped by much earlier!”

_If I knew you were related to any of the big shots in here, I would have certainly resigned much earlier._

Kirby could not deny, however, how disgustingly enticed he felt by the praise. The drawbacks of having too much proud on his work! It nearly made him believe maybe Gord wasn’t as nasty as he recalled from his disheartened teenage years.

“How about you, young lad? What’s your name again?”, Kirby couldn’t help stealing a glance at Gord, who squinted in an attempt to read his barback’s nametag. “Diego, right?”

“I—”

“You have a nice aura about you, Diego. Where did you come—no, let me guess. Cancún?”

“Uhm, I… I’m from Brazil, sir.”

“Of course, Brazil! I think I might have passed by in my last trip. Isn’t it near Veracruz?”

_God, he really hasn’t changed a fucking thing._

“Actually—”

“Haha! _Muy bueno_ , Diego. You’re doing a great job, _chico_.”

Kirby felt like dying on the spot. Maybe killing the pretentious sap first — then dropping dead. Gord’s eyes aimed at Kirby once more. He kept a smile on his face.

“Time changes people, don’t you think, Kirby?”

Ten years in the industry and never had he wanted to strangle a costumer so much in his life. The _nerve_.

“They don’t speak Spanish in Brazil”, Kirby replied with a sneer. “And his name is actually _Diogo_.”

_And this certainly doesn’t apply to your shitty self._

Was it even worth mentioning Brazil is a country in South America? Kirby decided not to add this information as he stirred the drink on the mixing glass. Good thinking, since Gord decided to pay no mind to his corrections. He absent-mindedly poured a few drops from his mix onto his hand to have a try before serving. He approached his lips to his hand to suck on it – _shit, this is The Rob Roy_ – and nearly dropped his spoon on his other hand when he noticed Gord still staring attentively at him.

 _Fuck_. So much for professionalism – he felt like punching himself for such a careless move. Why was he still sitting there anyway? Kirby mused as he looked away and prayed his blushing face could not be noticed under the warm lights. Straining the drink in the glass, he carefully placed a cherry on the bottom and slowly pushed it at Gord’s direction, resisting the urge to avoid eye contact. He was a professional and would never lose face to a—

“Magnificent”, Gord said. His dark eyes looked absurdly bright from where he stood. “Truly magnificent”, he still stared at Kirby as he took the first sip of his cocktail.

Kirby didn’t even realize the bell ringing until he acknowledged a server carrying the negroni prepared by Diogo on a tray. It seemed that Gord had not realized that either.

“I ought to return to my companion before he gets lonesome, now”, the preppy man said, getting up from his stool with his glass in hand, “this is truly fantastic – and I do not refer solely to the cocktail.”

And with a smirk over his shoulder, he turned his back and strolled to his table, leaving a flabbergasted bar manager and his unaware barback behind. Did he really just—

“Mr. Olsen? Sir?”

* * *

Dragged away from his astonishment, Kirby looked back to Diogo.

“May I go to the restroom?”

Kirby sighed. What was he, a teacher? _God, these kids_.

“Just go home. Leave the closing to me. Tell Stan and to pass his section over to Jason and leave too. I’ll see you Friday.”

Diogo beamed at that and thanked him before making his leave. Ten minutes until midnight – table 30 was the only remaining in the room. There wasn’t much left to close the bar, so Kirby left only the essential for another round of negroni and Rob Roy. He saw Gord and Mr. Corelli get up from their seats and leave the lounge. From the window, he watched them light their cigarettes and chat, and for a moment he wished for a cigarette as well, despite the fact he had quit smoking for about a year now.

 _What was that all about?_ , he wondered with sheer distaste. Hopefully, he would soon be rid of these guys, close up the bar, go home and spend his day off planning his resign letter. There was no way he could endure the chance of seeing Gord Vendome or any other acquaintance of his past again in this town.

He noticed a bellboy hurrying to their way with a large umbrella. Seems it had started to rain – and Kirby recalled he had not brought his umbrella with him. He sighed.

Deep inside, a pesky thought of how interesting would it be to spend more time with that man surged inconveniently in his mind. Undeniably, time had made Gord well – he looked even more charming than his younger, adolescent self. Kirby tried not to picture in his head the face he made moments earlier as he tried his drink, tried not to imagine if he would look at him that way with Kirby’s lips around his—

 _God damn it_.

Years away from his parents did him well to get in terms with his own sexuality. _It’s alright to be bi_ , he kept in mind, and therapy helped him with that. He was much more confident and mature than his teenage self could ever imagine. But really, did he _seriously_ have to feel any sort of attraction to someone who was part of his worst memories?

“I hope I’m not late for last call.”

Kirby quickly hid his frown before turning to face Gord one more. It was already midnight, for fuck’s sake. He faked a smile however because this was all left to him for the night.

“Will Mr. Corelli join you on this final round?”, he was careful not to stress _final_ as not to sound like he was trying to ditch anyone. Of _course_ he wasn’t, of course.

“Bob has already left to his room. These will be on my tab”, Gord replied, taking a seat on the stool and propping his elbows on the bar as he watched Kirby start his drink. “I can sign the check already if you wish – I would rather not hold your staff beyond their shift”.

 _You could show the same concern for me, fuckass_.

Kirby was seriously on the verge of losing it with that man. He looked up to the remaining staff, signaling with his hand for Jason to deliver the check and Lorene to gather the receipts to be given to the cashier responsible for closing. As Jason placed the bill on the bar, Kirby told him to leave as soon as he finished closing the room.

Soon there was only him and Gord left in there.

“How have you been these years, old friend?”

Kirby held the urge to shove his spoon up Gord’s throat – yet he couldn’t help his scowl as he kept his eyes on the mixing glass ahead of him.

“Could you please drop the intimacy, _Mr. Vendome_?”

Gord scoffed. “God, what’s wrong with a little catch up?”

“Look”, Kirby hastily stirred the drink, no longer able to hold much politeness for his guest. “I seriously don’t wanna have anything to do with Bullworth and whoever is related to it. I’m just doing my job here.”

“I had _nothing_ to do with whatever happened to you back then”, Gord replied defensively. “Is it fair to treat me like I hold any blame?”

With the last straw breaking, Kirby straight up glared at him, his voice cold and harsh though not so loud. “You expect me to believe you didn’t have part in it? Laughing behind my back at the expense of my sanity in that hellhole?”

A tinge of hurt also lingered in his words. There was just too much pain buried with those memories.

“Yes, I do. I expect you to believe me when I say—”

“Are any of you even _aware_ of how you fucked people up?”

“Don’t say something like that as if you never hurt people too. You did have your share, did you not?”

Kirby had to gather the remains of his self-control or else he would assault Gord through the bar. He finished his drink and nearly shoved it to him, rubbing a hand through his face before pinching the bridge of nose.

“Enjoy your drink and just leave me to my affairs. _Please_.”

This ordeal was already humiliating enough. Years of therapy just to be dumped within hours? Kirby could not allow that.

“You still haven’t made the other drink.”

“What?”

“Check the printer. I ordered another drink besides mine.”

Kirby grabbed the ticket and indeed, there was a second order besides the Rob Roy.

“I just told them to charge the most expensive one, but really, make whatever drink you prefer. It’s for you, after all.”

Kirby frowned at the ticket, then sighed. “Thanks but I’ll pass, you can have this drink for yourself.”

“That’s my order, Olsen”, Gord’s voice was suddenly dull and demanding. “Help yourself to a drink. I want you to have it with me.”

 _What the actual—_ Kirby stared incredulously. Was he really being coerced into drinking at work with that guy? The _fucking_ nerve, really. It took him several seconds until silence was shattered.

“You know what? I deserve this fucking drink”, _especially after putting up with such a douchebag_.

“Great. This is exactly what I was looking forward to.”

Kirby quivered at his words and was disgusted by his own reaction.

He grabbed a bottle of Sazerac and went for a Manhattan. He would certainly prefer a sour but it was past midnight, he had been working for over ten hours against his true will and above all that, he was having drinks with an unpleasant costumer he would rather had just left already — better spare himself the time and effort and just use the vermouths and bitters already at hand.

He quickly finished his cocktail – he may or may not have made it stronger than average since he wasn’t the one paying for it – and raised his glass to Gord. “Happy?”

“Delighted”, Gord replied as he raised his own glass. “I shall not demand you to join me on a toast if you are not inclined to it though.”

Kirby looked at him and back at his glass hesitantly. He wasn’t as rude as to refuse a toast, being as passionate about drinking as he was. He also wasn’t looking forward to making such a bad impression it could get him fired before he could actually quit.

“… Whatever. Just don’t toast to the old times for chrissake.”

“Very well. To the new times it shall be”.

* * *

Drinking with Gord was, in fact… not as distressing as he imagined? They shared their preferences of liquor. At first Kirby was rather constipated and cautious, but few sips into his drink later he was already disinhibited into his talk of bourbons and cocktail techniques. He was pleased for his excitement towards mixology was nonetheless met with equal enthusiasm by Gord.

“… And when you smoke dried orange peels like that, it really gives a unique taste to your drink.”

“You could show me that.”

“I’d have to open the register again for a new tab and unfortunately we already closed.”

“Fuck that, I know you can just charge these to room service. It’s a twenty-four hour service anyway.”

“… Damn, aren’t you a hotelier after all.”

“Just make the bloody drinks already.”

Maybe it was the alcohol kicking in, or maybe it was Gord’s attitude – he couldn’t tell and refused to admit to either – but Kirby was sure for a fact he was feeling much more compliant to taking his orders now.

Back with his mixing glass filled with ice, he poured the dashes Sazerac along with Punt e Mes and Campari and stirred well. The OTR glasses sitting on top of the bar had small plates beneath them – dried orange peels neatly placed beside. He fumbled through the pockets in his black jacket looking for his cigar lighter—

“That’s a really nice suit. I must say, I never took you for an Aquaberry type.”

“I’m not—that’s just my uniform.”

“I know. I was the one who required for everyone to wear these – and boy, am I glad I did just by looking at you.”

Kirby wished he could blame the alcohol for the warmth on his ears after hearing that coming from a man who was known for his finest clothing—he couldn’t help glancing at Gord’s pristine shoes when he crossed his legs and _damn, I wonder how much were these_.

He finally managed to get his cigar lighter, and with that, he set fire to the dried peels and turned the chilled glasses upside down on top of them. They watched as the smoke stuck to the sides and slowly dissipated. Straining the drinks into the glasses with new ice, he grabbed fresh peels, twisting them and rubbing them around the rims before tidily placing them inside.

A pleasant whiff of smoked orange hung in the air. They tilted their glasses and made another toast. Having his fourth drink, Gord’s visage was already reaching a tipsy state. Cheeks matching the complexion of his drink, sparkling eyes and slightly unfastened smirk – his speech was not slurry yet his face certainly accused his condition.

To Kirby’s chagrin, he still looked as charming as few drinks earlier.

“It tastes wonderful, really. The smoke really gives a _quoi_ to this… this…”

“Boulevardier. Another classic with bourbon obviously because I get to pick the liquor since you’re making me stay over for these.”

“Not fair… but I’ll let it slide because this—how do you say? Ah, yes—this is _the_ shit.”

Kirby gazed at his watch and raised his brows at the numbers displayed on screen. It was past one in the morning.

“I’m, like, several hours beyond my shift now. Talk about fair.”

“Such a _pity_. I’ll tell Mr. Laer to give you the day off tomorrow if you get ourselves one more drink.”

“Joke’s on you, I already got the day off tomorrow”, Kirby sneered. “And you’re drunk. I can’t let a big shot’s offspring pass out on my bar.”

“I’ll tell Mr. Laer to cut your day off.”

“I could put you on a coma before you had the chance. May or may not resort to alcohol for that.”

Gord chortled at his threat and it sounded so _pleasant._ It really felt as if Kirby was talking to someone completely new, somehow—yet it didn’t, but it didn’t feel as bad as before either. Was it the booze? Most likely. Was he worried about lowering his guard if he kept going that way? Maybe not as likely he would normally prefer. It had been quite a while since he last had a good time with someone else.

“Not so bad…”

“What is it?”

 _Shit_. He only realized he actually spoke his thoughts aloud when Gord replied. He shook his head dismissively and saw Gord grinning across the bar.

“What’s so funny?”

“Your face. You look amusing when you seem to be mulling over something.”

“Maybe I was mulling over giving you a poundcake with my fists right now.”

“You better save this for our next date.”

Next _what?!_

“That’s not what I—what the fuck do you even mean by—”

For crying out loud, Kirby’s face was ablaze at that rate. Who the fuck coerces someone to stay over their shift to make them drinks and calls this a date?

“Of course it’s a joke”, Gord laughed. Kirby was unable to match his amusement and stared at him befuddled. He suddenly shifted to a serious tone, dark eyes leering directly at Kirby’s, “Even so… I do look forward to seeing you again. In your free time, that is.”

Kirby remained speechless. Gord rested his chin on his hand and casually continued, “how about tomorrow?”

_You gotta be shitting me._

Finishing his boulevardier in a single gulp, Gord raised to his feet. He seemed unfettered by the exchange – or the large alcohol intake – as he retrieved an exquisite pen out of a pocket in his refined navy suit and signed the bill that had been resting next to him for a while now.

“Please ask someone to deliver the check for these two drinks tomorrow morning. Will you consider my invite?”

That night had certainly taken a turn for the most absurd to Kirby. Why was someone he didn’t even want to deal with hitting on him so unabashedly? And above all that – why was he actually inclined to accept such rash moves? He refused, in fact, to acknowledge the latter. Yet he could not hide from himself the actual interest blooming, puddles of arousal and revulsion mingling together inwardly.

Once he finally managed to utter words, a weak reply left his lips: “I’ll… think about it.”

A warm grin flashed in Gord’s face at that.

“This should do for now. Thank you for your excellent service.”

And with no further ceremony, he left the bar.

 _What the fuck is wrong with this guy_ , was the only question Kirby could elaborate amongst all the mess he found himself in. He quickly cleaned up the bar and finished closing – it was way past two already and there he was, trying to assimilate such sequence of events. He left the signed bill with the Night Manager at reception, giving the instructions to Gord’s request, and headed to the emergency exit stairs within the building as of to reach the staff locker room on the underground floor.

_He didn’t even give me his number. How the fuck am I supposed to—oh._

Halfway through the stairs, Kirby stopped in his tracks, clenching his fists so tightly he could feel his short nails scratch his palms. What was he to make of it? Was he played a fool all along? It would make sense – why else would an overindulged wretch like Gord Vendome waste his time with a run-of-the-mill, simple minded man such as Kirby? _So that’s how it is!_ He should have seen that coming, yet he let his guard down and was led astray.

Kirby’s obscure ripples of anxiety however were jolted out of his mind at the sound of footsteps coming from upstairs. They were followed by a voice calling his name.

_You definitely gotta be shitting me now._

He tilted his head with a death stare. Gord Vendome stood on top of the stairs, a rueful smile on his face as he said: “I forgot your tip.”

“I already clocked out”, Kirby snarled. “This won’t be necessary.”

“I insist”, Gord swiftly ran downstairs before Kirby could reach the next flight. “After you have done so much to me”, with a wad of money in one hand, he used the other to seize Kirby’s shoulder, “I must—!”

With a gasp, his back was roughly shoved against a wall, bundle of bills jostled to the floor.

“What kind of clown do you take me for?!”, Kirby spat each word, fisting Gord’s lapels and shooting daggers right into his face. “You got your inconsiderate ass thinking some cash is enough repayment?!”

His eyes were ablaze, flaring wood matching the crimson shades of anger and inebriety in his features.

“After _you_ have done _so much_ to _me_ ”, he mirrored Gord’s words venomously, his flaming breath full of intemperance and dangerously close to the other man’s face. “The _nerve_ rich brats like you got. I could fucking smash your skull as retribution!”

Gord was silent. Despite the insouciance on his face, Kirby could feel his unsettled heartbeat against his own body. That was, in fact, when he realized how close he had gotten to Gord, one leg heedlessly placed between his. Although as enraged as he was, he slowly loosened his grip on Gord’s jacket and tried to recollect himself, sudden awareness of his surroundings and the possibility of security cameras filming his assault right that instant—

And in a hasty motion, Gord pulled Kirby’s knee with his own calf, making him lose balance. Before Kirby could manage a reaction, their positions were inversed and he found his wrists unexpectedly caged by a firm clasp next to each side of his head!

“Get off—”

“Dare not make me repeat this a third time”, Gord’s voice was steady and intimidating, “I _never_ took part in the folly involving your name. You insist on barking up the wrong tree, old friend.”

Kirby felt Gord’s grasp tighten around his wrists after a failed attempt to break free. At this rate, his breath was erratic and his vision slightly hazed. The heat in his face spread through his body like wildfire. _Shit_.

“Let us sort this out like adults: I find you _attractive_. Always did. I fancy the idea of getting to know you better”, the dark pools in his eyes seemed to glint as he continued, “nevertheless whatever happened back then.”

 _Shitshitshitshit._ How did Kirby become so flustered at all of that? The willpower to fight sudden urges of tilting his head just a little—

Gord let go of Kirby’s wrists and promptly backed off, wary of a possible lash out. Seeing as he was met with no retaliation, he picked up the earlier forgotten wad of money on the floor.

“You seriously should accept this”, his voice shifted to a heartier tone as he fisted the cash within one of Kirby’s upper pockets, “as gratitude for your service.”

Kirby absolutely failed to articulate a single reply. He stared, confounded. On a spur of moment, however, he seemed to recall what words were made of and blurted: “Your number.”

Gord raised his brows—and flashed a grin on his lips. He calmly approached Kirby with his phone in hand. The lit display stated it was nearly three.

Kirby clumsily fished his own phone out of his pocket. “Right. Mine is…”

There he was, exchanging numbers with a person he seriously did not expect to see after all those years.

He was so focused on not looking too nervous, tapping the numbers Gord unhurriedly recited, he didn’t even acknowledge Gord’s hand splayed right next to his shoulder, cornering him against the wall once more. When he looked up from his phone right into his eyes, he was startled—Gord’s face was perilously near Kirby’s as he drawled the remaining numbers.

“Got it?”, he mumbled, to which Kirby nodded in a quiet response. “Good.”

Kirby instinctively drew his gaze to Gord’s lips, somewhat parted and approaching… subsequently, pressed against his own. _Fuck_ —he couldn’t help shuddering as he shut his eyes and kissed him back, frenzied at Gord’s balmy fingers caressing his neck as his other hand slid to Kirby’s arm. _This feels too good_ , he sighed as he tucked his phone back in his pocket and slid his hands to Gord’s waist, holding him against his chest.

Kirby was unable to hold back a whimper when Gord sucked his tongue, legs pinned against his inner thighs and eager hands feeling his torso. He wished he could savor the taste of whiskey and cigarettes a little longer, yet they inevitably had to pull apart. He thanked heavens there were no actual cameras in that area of the building. Gord’s face was delectable—something he would most likely print in his memory for as long as he managed.

“Wish I could drag you back to my room”, he said in a low voice next to Kirby’s ear.

“My boss would love to see me showing up so early to work.”

Gord chuckled. _The nerve, really._ Straightening his jacket, he stole a quick peck from Kirby’s lips as he bid him goodnight. Kirby observed Gord run up the stairs, waking from his own stupor once he heard the fire door closing. His astonishment lingered as much as the taste of liquor when he left the building. Not long after he arrived home, his phone buzzed with the notification of a new text.

Kirby may or may not have blushed heavily at that.

**Author's Note:**

> ¹ OTR = on the rocks
> 
> why hELLO THERE  
> care to see my collection of expensive bully headcanons?  
> i still cant believe its been over 5 years and i only found out more people shipping this on tumblr like, a few weeks ago? yall gotta show this crackship some LOVE.  
> this was supposed to be oneshot actually but theres so much more i wanted to write... i MAY or MAY NOT continue this tbh. idk! im having way too much free time since i lost my job due to the pandemics anyway lmao.  
> thank you for reading this far!


End file.
